Page 21 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)
Chapter twenty-one
The Trap
The room crystallised into a sort of paralysis. Everything around Fern stopped happening, the candidates and the sofas and the gleaming bottles of the bar disappearing. Her focus, through the haze of alcohol, sharpened, narrowing on Lautric as though she were seeing him properly for the first time.
Of course his family knew her well. They had sent too many thugs to steal books from her to not be aware that she’d hospitalised every one of them. They knew the names of all the books she had snatched out from under their noses, and that she was the one who had returned the only existing copy of Symbolism of In-Between Doors to Vestersted .
She was a thorn in the side of the Lautric House and had been for years; it was as much of a professional achievement as any award Fern had received over the course of her career.
But there could only be one reason for Lautric to mention it now.
“Are you threatening me?” Fern asked in a breath .
Lautric’s expression fell, as though the thought had not occurred to him and appalled him now she had mentioned it.
“To what possible purpose?” he said.
Fern thought of what Baudet had said to him the night Vittoria got attacked. You manipulative wretch . But Fern would rather be manipulated than lied to, because manipulation, like learning, could only stand solidly on a foundation of truth.
“My question exactly,” she said.
Lautric was silent for a moment, his stare unreadable. He leaned forward, close enough that Fern could smell the sweet alcohol on his breath, the warm, sugary smell of him. He spoke in a tone of sincerity, his eyes boring into hers as though he wished to pour the essence of his true feelings into her.
“I have no reason to threaten you,” he murmured. “You are not my enemy.”
“You might be mine.” Her words were as sincere and soft as his, though she had not intended to speak so gently.
“Why would you take me for your enemy when you could have me for an ally?”
They had stopped dancing. Now, they simply stood in a corner of the room, beneath the dim light of a blue lampshade, with her hands on his shoulders and his arm still around her waist. The wool of his sweater was soft beneath her fingers, and the warmth of his body radiated from him like subtle pyromancy.
Fern stepped away. “Because I despise book thieves. ”
His arms dropped to his side, and he nodded in a way that seemed to acknowledge that this was a fair enough reason to make an enemy.
Then he said in a solemn tone, “Then, Miss Sullivan, you will be relieved to learn that I have never stolen a book in my life.”
Fern opened her mouth to ask him about the Sumbra books she had seen Vittoria give him, but she clamped her lips shut. She’d had too much to drink, and she was tired, and careless. She had almost spilled precious information and given up whatever advantage she held over him.
Narrowing her eyes, she studied Lautric. Whether or not it was an attempt at manipulation—and it almost certainly was—he seemed to wish for peace between them. Antagonising him was more stubborn pride than sensible strategising, and Fern should know better than to value pride over sensibility.
“I’m sorry, we got off on the wrong foot,” she said with her most courteous smile. “I should not have been so rude, and you are right; we are not enemies. Why don’t we begin anew?”
She extended her hand. “How do you do. Fern Sullivan.”
He took her hand in his. “How do you do. My name is Léo.”
Though his hold on her fingers was firm, he was gentle still, just as he had been when they danced. His middle fingers slid over Fern’s wrist. The touch startled her, and she pulled away as if she’d been burnt, throwing up a polite smile like the flashing blade of a parrying dagger .
“I’m glad we could resolve our misunderstanding,” she said with rigid formality. “I hope we can proceed henceforth on a basis of mutual respect and professional courtesy. I wish you luck with your candidacy. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in now.”
Lautric gazed down at her, his expression earnest, a little disappointed. “Won’t you stay awhile? I was hoping we might speak some more.”
“I’m sorry,” Fern said. “I’m tired.”
“Of course, you must be exhausted. My apologies.” Lautric stepped aside and said, his voice lower, softer, “Would you like me to escort you back to your rooms?”
Fern was utterly silent for a moment, her voice stuck in her throat. She was surprised by his offer, the implications he did not seek to conceal.
More than that, she was surprised by herself, the tiny pull of temptation that stopped her from answering immediately. But Lautric, despite being her rival and the son of her enemy, was also a handsome young man, and Fern was still a living, breathing human being, and it had been a long time since she’d taken a lover. And she knew the effect of stress and forced proximity on the human psyche.
She could already see these effects amongst the candidates. The companionship forming between Srivastav and Essouadi, bonded by age and experience and a deep love of their family. The flirtations of the twins, who gave the impression that they might sleep with any of the candidates who might follow them to their rooms. The blossoming closeness between Vittoria and Baudet, the way his eyes always sought her out and the way she let him attend to her like a knight in a courtly romance .
But Fern knew a trap when she saw one, even when she was tired and tipsy and lonely. She shook her head.
“Thank you for your courteous offer,” she said in her most bureaucratic tone. “There is no need for you to indispose yourself, Mr Lautric. I’ll make my own way back. Goodnight.”
He stood aside with a nod, and she slipped past him and out of the room, her heart racing as if she had narrowly avoided being swept away by a dark and dangerous tide.